These days, Tohma sees more of Ryuuchi than Mika. More of Noriko than Mika too, but that's not the point. Noriko's not the one who laughs with the fearless glee that most people leave behind with their childhoods; Noriko's not the one who goes sharp-eyed and narrow-lipped, blazing intensity and star-fire shining with every clear note from the mouth that Tohma remembers having kissed too many times to count.

Ryuuchi doesn't see anything when he's singing. He only sees the music, a rainbow-oilslick-spill that hovers in front of him and wraps around him. It's gold down his throat, and it's magic under his skin, and it wraps around him like a lover and mother both.

It's more than he could ever need, and everything he's always craved.

Tohma's never seen so much of Ryuuchi; Ryuuchi's never seen so little of Tohma.